


Tease

by washourhands



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Manhandling, Reader-Insert, Teasing, i'm bad with titles fam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 14:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17623733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/washourhands/pseuds/washourhands
Summary: Dutch was a wicked man, pure and simple.





	Tease

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still trying to work on Dutch's characterization, so go easy on me please! Also, I'm horrendous at dirty talk and it shows.

Dutch was a wicked man, pure and simple. The kind of tease that had you thinking in short, stuttered sentences. Tease. Asshole. Numerous other words that would be unbecoming of a woman in any other position, a new one entering your mind with each little passing glance. The way he kept up with the gentle touches- brushing your hair from the back of your neck, hot breath ghosting over your ear only for him to ask something so mundane- it had your skin practically buzzing. And when he would squeeze flesh when no one was lookin, well, who could blame the little whimper that almost escaped?

Afterall, he’d done this all day, and by the end of it, you were positively fuming. As everyone packed up for the night, you marched towards his tent, seeming so confident despite the flush across your cheeks, your chest. You weren’t even sure if you would rather fuck him than hit him. The cocky grin he displays when he turns to see you enter the tent tells you that both sounds good.

“Yes?”

You slap his chest and he catches your wrist easily, chuckling at the feeble attempt. Not that you even really wanted to hurt him. Fucker. You call him such.

“Oh? Why’s that?” He drops his voice in the mud and swaggers into your space even more, and you back up just to spite him. He only grins, slow and smooth and you wanna punch him in the mouth.

“You know damn well why, van der Linde.”

He runs his free hand over your waist, trails his fingers over your spine, and even through the fabric it makes you tingle.

“Because of a few little touches?” He pulls you closer by your wrist, not too rough, but enough for a little jump in your pulse, enough to make you gasp.

“I was sure you could handle more than that, darlin’.”

You glare at him. He knows he’s got you weak kneed and wet without even lifting your skirts to see.

“Oh, I can,” a lie and you both know it.

His lips are on yours the next instant, devouring you like you had wished he would, knew he would, and you whimper like you’d never felt lips on yours before. He huffed a laugh between you. Both of your hands are everywhere, gripping and pulling at clothes, and you’re glad you had the foresight to close the tent flap before you approached him. Dutch’s vest is unbuttoned and half off along with his shirt as he lifts you up onto the cot, your shirt buttons surprisingly still intact, though undone. Your skirts are gathered in eager white knuckled fists as he pushes them up to your waist, and you could almost grin at how bad he wanted it, too. Your own hands reach out for his waist, somehow swift in undoing belts and buttons, despite your trembling.

This wasn’t new. This was how it almost always was between you. One would tease and prod the other till one snapped, but it never grew old, always lead to bone tingling heights and numbing ends.

And just as usual, you seemed to choke on air as he thrust into you, his teeth clenched at the initial squeeze.

“God, _Dutch_.”

“Let me see just how much you can handle,” he leaned forward, splayed his hand across your sternum to hold you in place before snapping his hips against you.

Dutch never really cared if others heard you. You tried to be quiet, but with the way his hips swiveled and pulled it was nearly impossible. One hand clawed at his bicep, the other clamped over your own mouth, hardly muffling the noises he seemed to pull from you. He knocked it away and replaced it with his own, grinning and groaning at the way your eyes watered, the way you started to clench and shiver around him.

“Damn, you really can’t take much can you?” The wobble in his own voice showed the same was true for him. You hit that sort of noiseless high where you practically shrieked at the end, and he wasn’t far behind, hand now loose over your mouth as he bowed, moaning into your neck in a way you never thought a man like him could.

As he regained composure he gently kissed your neck, and as he pulled away your only response was to hit him again, playful and light.

“You really are a shithead.”

He laughs.


End file.
